As predicted, the following day I carried around with me a
mixed bag of guilt and shame, in addition to feeling bloated and dehydrated.
In an effort to alleviate these, I emailed and sent text messages to
my friends, letting them know their friend was a dirty stay-out who actually
didn’t stay out, but instead, had to hurry home that evening to clean the boy
off of her apartment.

And because they are my friends and were probably starting
to worry about how long it had been, they were equal
parts thrilled and assuring that there was no reason to stitch red letters onto all my sweaters. They asked all the
standard questions about his looks and performance and the awkwardness level
reached the next morning and one that caused me to pause.

All my girlfriends (with one exception) asked me if I had
plans to see him again.

I laughed and reminded them it wouldn’t be called a
one-night stand if they lasted more than one night and that I was sure to see
him again and again (if my random hook-up history repeated itself) but we
wouldn’t actually talk. Instead we would avoid eye contact and pretend we
didn’t recognize each other with clothes on.

Still, their optimism prevailed and they followed up days
later to see if I had heard from him.

Of course I hadn’t.

Their follow-up? Well, why don’t you reach out to him?

How’s that?

Beyond all my typical protests that would prevent me from
ever doing that I had to ask why I would?

“Because he meets all your prerequisites for dating
someone.”

Very true. He does. And had I not slept with him after
knowing him for only a few hours (Mom, seriously? I tried to tell you) I suppose there is a slim chance he
could have filled the empty number five spot.

But I did sleep with him. I was one of those girls. I
opted for immediate gratification over giving him my number and crossing my
fingers he would call. A single girl who wanted to get some, saw her
opportunity and took it, knowing by doing so she would drastically reduce her
chance of seeing this gentleman again.

And yes, there are those out there that will call me a
slut (none of my friends, I mean people like Steve Harvey and Dr. Phil) and tell me this is precisely the behavior that keeps me single. In turn,
I suppose I could blame it on the alcohol or say it wasn’t me, it was the
dress.

However,
I prefer to think that because I'm single and am not looking to change that,
this is exactly the way I should be behaving.